When I Finally Realized the Mental Health System Wasn't Set Up to Help Me

I was 7 years old when I was first evaluated for having a mental illness. I was experiencing outbursts — swearing, breaking things and being violent. They said I was out of control. This only occurred at home. At school, I was happy, engaged and did well academically. And there lay the problem.

• What is Bipolar disorder?

Because I did well in school, the system forgot me. I got lost in the shuffle. I was recently hospitalized, and the social worker in the emergency room said people like me get misplaced in the system. Because we don’t quite fit in a box of who we’re supposed to be as someone with mental illness. It was one of the first times an outsider, looking in at my situation, said something so validating.

School was my safe haven – it made sense that is where I thrived. I dreaded going home every day. It made me so sad because going home meant being alone and lost. Teachers and other faculty members offered me support and sense of security that I didn’t get at home. And I was desperate for that support and security, like thirst for water after a long workout. Every time summer vacation rolled around, I struggled to transition. The fall returning was a breath of fresh air, something I felt like I waited for forever.

By the time I was 16, things came to a head. I was hospitalized six times in a year. The social workers in the hospital never really seemed to care. I saw other patients around me get offered more treatment and long-term care, as I continued in the dark cycle of ending up back there repeatedly. I wondered why my life was worth less than those offered that help. After all, what we were doing wasn’t working. And it wasn’t enough. I needed more help.

I got lost in the system of my local county too. When I was 17, I did one of the bravest things I’ve done in my life — I went to the county and asked for residential treatment. I was denied. They told me I “hadn’t exhausted all community options.”  Those words have echoed in the back of my head since.

So, I went to school — when I could cope anyway. I missed a lot of school. But when I went, I got support from teachers, school counselors and the school psychologist. My GPA was never honor-worthy, but that didn’t matter. What mattered is I was alive. Because no one thought I would make it to 18. I didn’t think I would. I was severely suicidal, severely self-harming and struggling with undiagnosed bipolar disorder and an undiagnosed eating disorder.

Sometimes I feel like I never I had a chance. The system that was supposed to help me, didn’t. They forgot about me. But the people who worked at my schools, they never did. We don’t have a choice where we come from — but we do have a say in where we go from there. It’s not quite that easy, and it’s also daunting.

I’m sad for the 7-year-old girl I was, and the girl I never got to be. I think it’s OK and normal to be sad about it from time to time. I’ve missed out on a lot throughout my life. But one thing I’m grateful for every day is the people who didn’t forget about me; they made me feel loved, heard, seen and not alone. They didn’t always understand, but they were there — and that counts for everything.